


The Seventh Day

by merle_p



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blasphemy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Getting Together, London, M/M, Mortality, Pining, Possibly inaccurate facts about angels and demons, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 19:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19302532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: However, if there is one lesson he has learned, as an ethereal being who has lived through six millennia, it is that good things rarely last.





	The Seventh Day

It seems a ridiculous thing to say, of course, for an ethereal being such as himself who has lived through six millennia, but while he would be embarrassed to utter the thought out loud, he is quite certain that the year since the end of the just barely averted apocalypse has been the best time of his entire existence. 

He simply hadn’t fully realised just how much the pressure of his job had been weighing on him all these centuries. The constant worry about whether Head Office was satisfied with his work, the perpetual inability to reconcile his understanding of what seemed _just_ and _right_ with what God in her eternal wisdom wanted to happen as part of her great master plan. The unsettling feeling when he heard his own doubtful thoughts echoed from Crowley’s mouth (“Not the kids? You can’t kill kids!”) and couldn’t help but wonder whether it meant that he was so much closer to damnation than he thought, or whether – and the idea was so terrifying he hardly ever fully let himself contemplate it – there was any chance he was actually working for the wrong side. 

It is exhilarating not to have to worry about any of this anymore. To be able to provide little acts of kindness without the fear that he may actually be interfering with God’s plan. To be able to agree with Crowley’s opinions without the nagging doubt that he just crossed some irreversible unforgivable line. 

(The first time he had brought a Doors CD on a car ride into the countryside and popped it into the player, unprompted, as they were speeding down a narrow country road, Crowley had given him a look of such unconcealed surprised _delight_ that Aziraphale couldn’t help but think that he would gladly listen to nothing but psychedelic rock for the rest of eternity if it meant being on the receiving end of this kind of smile.)

The fact that he can spend time with Crowley without needing a work-related excuse, and that Crowley apparently doesn’t seem to terribly mind spending time with _him_ , well. That’s a whole different level of exhilarating. 

However, if there is one lesson he has learned, as an ethereal being who has lived through six millennia, it is that good things rarely last. 

And so, it is with a sinking heart but little surprise that he watches Gabriel and Michael march into his shop on a Thursday shortly after the one-year anniversary of the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. 

“Gabriel, Michael,” Aziraphale says resignedly. “What a pleasure. Please join me in the backroom,” he adds, a sweep of his arm guiding the way. As they file past him, he lowers his voice.

“Just …” he grimaces. “Please don’t say anything about pornography this time. I do have actual customers these days.”

“Pornography?” Michael asks, shooting Gabriel a confused look. Gabriel, the coward, shrugs his shoulders innocently as if he has no idea what Aziraphale could be talking about. 

“Never mind,” Aziraphale waves her off, and wills the door between backroom and shop closed with his mind. If they don’t want him to use magic, he thinks defiantly, they can go and shut the bloody door themselves.

“I am sorry, I didn’t expect you,” he says pointedly. “I would have hoovered the carpet if you had called ahead.”

Michael looks even more confused. “Hoovered?”

Gabriel raises his hands. “Don’t ask me.” 

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale interrupts, not quite able to contain his impatience. “I thought you lot didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

Gabriel’s smile is strained. “So did we,” he says, then actually goes and wrings his hands. “The thing is …” 

He clears his throat. “There has been … some restructuring.” 

He looks immensely uncomfortable. So does Michael, for that matter. Despite himself, Aziraphale finds that he is starting to become somewhat curious. 

“Rationalisation, if you know what I mean.” Michael coughs discretely. “We had to let some people go. You know how it goes.”

Actually, Aziraphale doesn’t know. The last time he was in the situation to sack someone was in 1480, when the young man working in his little printing shop kept nicking the letters from Aziraphale’s movable type printing press to sell the metal on the black market. Crowley, who just so happened to be in town that day, had backed him up in his decision (after vehemently rejecting Aziraphale’s accusations that he had something to do with the theft), then taken him to the inn for a pint or two to distract him from his guilty conscience. 

He has an inkling that this is not quite how things went down on the top floor. 

He raises his brows. “And I need to know this because …”

“Well,” Gabriel says, looking like he is steeling himself for an unpleasant task. “What this means is that we are a little low on highly trained personnel, if you get my meaning. Have some openings in the higher ranks that we need to fill.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He has the fleeting thought of opening a window somewhere, because the air suddenly feels very stuffy.

“That means, as of this moment, your sabbatical is officially over,” Michael says haughtily. “So is your previous deployment to Earth.”

“Congratulations,” Gabriel smiles sourly. “You just got promoted.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, more faintly this time. “Oh, that is …”

Michael crosses her arms and taps her foot impatiently, making it clear that she has no time for his existential crisis. “So now that that’s settled,” she says. “Can we leave? The air down here is doing awful things to my allergies.” 

“What, right now?” Aziraphale blurts out, feeling the tendrils of hysteria lick at his soul. “Isn’t that a bit… short notice?” 

“What were you expecting,” Gabriel asks, back to his old smarmy self now that he’s made it past the initial awkwardness. “A handwritten invitation from the Lady Almighty?” 

“No, no, nothing like that,” Aziraphale says hastily. “It’s just … there are some matters I should attend to before I leave. Things to wrap up. People are relying on me down here, you know.”

Of course, the last one is a bit of a lie. They don’t really, for the most part; if you don’t count Adam, who is probably hoping for a birthday present from his honorary angelic godfather, or the waiter at his favourite Ethiopian restaurant who is using Aziraphale’s rather generous tips to pay for his daughter’s school uniforms. 

There is really only one person who has been known to rely on him now and then, and that’s the one name Aziraphale is most certainly not going to bring up. 

“Well, how much time do you need?” Michael asks. She is obviously in a hurry to get out of the shop if she is so transparent in her willingness to prioritise quick compromise over lengthy negotiation.

“Oh,” Aziraphale stammers. “Oh, well, I say … I mean … how about seven days?”

Seven is a good number, he thinks. You can create a world in seven days. You can cleanse your soul by taking seven baths in the Jordan River. You can sauté young green asparagus in seven minutes to perfect softness while still leaving it with a bit of a bite. 

“Sure, yes, whatever,” Michael says. Gabriel opens his mouth as if to argue, then apparently seems to change his mind. 

“Right,” is all he says. “Seven days. We will be back next Thursday at this time. Be ready.”

Long after they leave, the smell of frankincense lingers in the air. It used to smell like home to him, but now it only makes him queasy. Aziraphale puts the “CLOSED” sign in the door, locks up the shop, and then tries very hard and rather unsuccessfully not to panic. 

He is aware, of course, that any reasonable, _normal_ angel would be thrilled at this opportunity. He knows exactly what he is being given: forgiveness for past digressions, wrapped up in a nice little bow and a bunch of decent benefits. It is, for all intents and purposes, a rather lovely retention package. 

So he doesn’t have a reasonable excuse for being positively _terrified_ at the prospect of being called back to Heaven. And this time, he can’t even argue that it is because he’s concerned about the fate of the world. In fact, Earth (and everything – everyone – currently inhabiting it) will be just fine without him, might be better off even, in some ways. No, he has no illusions that his reluctance is due to any altruistic motives. This is about nothing other than his own very personal, very selfish desires. 

He sinks down into the nearest chair and puts his head into his hands. 

Which is, of course, the moment Crowley chooses to saunter into the shop. Aziraphale should have known better than to think that the “CLOSED” sign would guarantee him privacy. Locked doors have never done much to keep Crowley out before. 

Aziraphale glances up at him and hopes that his smile doesn’t look quite as painful as it feels. Judging by the frown passing over Crowley’s face, that was clearly wishful thinking. 

“Everything alright?” Crowley asks, tilting his head as he takes another step towards him. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh nothing,” Aziraphale waves him off, going for cheerful and missing by a good distance. “Nothing at all. Everything is quite alright.”

“Really,” Crowley drawls, and Aziraphale shrugs and sighs. 

“Just, you know.” He gestures vaguely. “One of those days.”

Crowley gives him a sceptical look over the rim of his glasses that tells Aziraphale exactly what he thinks of this sorry excuse for a distraction, but miraculously, he does not prod any further. He cocks one hip up against the desk, idly running a long index finger over the books stacked up on the surface in neat little piles, and apparently in no hurry to get on with what he came for.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “What brings you here?” he asks, relieved to hear that his voice sounds almost normal again.

“Just popping in to see if you fancied seeing a film, actually,” Crowley says casually, his attention apparently still captured by the thin layer of dust covering Cervantes’ _Don Quixote_ , and there is really nothing Aziraphale can say to that kind of invitation but yes. 

It turns out that when Crowley said “film,” he was referring to a Nouvelle Vague retrospective at the Cine Lumière in South Kensington. Their cultural tastes don’t overlap in many places, but Nouvelle Vague cinema is one unlikely passion that they share, and Aziraphale can’t help but feel touched that Crowley remembered. 

They sit through _Jules et Jim, A Bout de Souffle,_ and _Les Quatre Cent Coups,_ sharing a bag of popcorn between them, and sometimes their fingers touch when they happen to reach for the popcorn at the same time. 

Aziraphale steals secret glances at Crowley from time to time, watching the reflections of light and shadow from the film screen chase each other across his face, and somewhere between Antoine’s arrest and his final race towards the ocean, the angel comes to the conclusion that there is absolutely no way he can tell Crowley about what happened today. 

 

They drive out to Cambridge the next day, because the sun is finally showing her face after a long stretch of wet and grey. They hire a punter who proceeds to float them down the Cam in a much more graceful manner than he probably has ever done before, if the surprised look on his face in response to his suddenly excellent punting skills is any indication. 

Later, they have a picnic at the Botanic Gardens. Crowley launches mild complaints about hypothetical ants, but predictably doesn’t put up much of a fight. He lounges on the soft tartan blanket Aziraphale has brought along, shoes and socks abandoned in the grass, and eats at least half of the Stilton that goes so amazingly well with baguette and overripe pears. Aziraphale drinks red wine from a tin cup in small sips, and gives himself over to the torturous pleasure of watching his friend lick pear juice off his palms. 

A solitary bee identifies Crowley’s hand as an adequate landing spot, and the demon sits very still until she peacefully floats off into the afternoon, her tiny bee legs sticky with sugary juice. Aziraphale tilts his face up towards the skies and blames his watering eyes on the bright force of the sun.

 

Aziraphale gets them tickets for _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ at the Globe for Friday night. Crowley picks him up in a taxi (because parking near the Globe is a challenge even for drivers with demonic skills), wearing a tuxedo that manages to make him look unsettlingly snake-like and breathtakingly distinguished at the same time. The shiny black material feels exquisite enough to be a silk blend under Aziraphale’s fingers when he briefly props his hand on Crowley’s shoulder to steady himself as he settles next to him in the backseat of the car. 

The woman who takes their coats at the theatre seems to share his thoughts about the suit, judging by the way she is trying to catch Crowley’s eye; but the demon’s gaze skitters over her without really taking her in, settling on Aziraphale as he pushes his glasses high up on his nose. 

“I hope you got us actual seats this time,” he says. “I don’t give a rat’s arse about your appreciation for the illusion of ‘authentic performance’. Having to stand through a 3-hour play was bad enough in the 16th century, and my knees haven’t got any younger since.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, a bit distracted, hoping that he’s actually answering the question Crowley asked. “Best seats in the house.”

Crowley frowns. “Something the matter?”

“Uhm, nothing.” Aziraphale occupies himself with straightening his cuffs. 

“Be my guest,” Crowley huffs, and Aziraphale blinks back up at him and says, against his better judgment: “You look nice.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows climb up into his forehead far past the rim of his dark glasses. Embarrassed, Aziraphale makes a show of studying the tickets to look for their seat numbers, as if he doesn’t already know them by heart. His cheeks feel flushed. 

“To the left,” he finally says and turns away without looking up to check whether Crowley is following. 

He must be, though, because the faint smell of Crowley’s expensive hair wax is still enveloping him, and Crowley’s voice sounds very close to Aziraphale’s ear when he murmurs: “Only the best for you, Angel.”

 

On Saturday, it is raining cats and dogs. 

(Not literally, thank God for small favours. Aziraphale still is mildly traumatised by the thing with the frogs, and that was several thousand years ago.)

Aziraphale can’t think of a good reason to get in touch with Crowley, and so he doesn’t bother to call. Instead he closes up the shop, because surely no one is going to come out to browse in this weather, and settles into his most comfortable armchair with a cup of tea and a pile of books. He thinks he ought to get some reading done while he still can. Upstairs, they are mostly reading just the one book, and he’s got that memorised in five different languages already.

The novel he picks up is not historically accurate, he realises after the first couple of pages, but it is not entirely terrible either. It is certainly not the book’s fault that he spends most of his morning staring out the window into the rain. 

Crowley shows up with Chinese take-out around midday, shivering and soaked to the bones. He shakes himself like a wet dog and then stands in the middle of Aziraphale’s shop, dripping onto the floor, until the angel takes pity on him and brings him a towel.

“I know you have an umbrella,” he scolds mildly. “I remember buying it for you.”

Crowley raises a single brow at him, though the effect is slightly undermined by the way his wet hair stands up in all directions.

“That was in 1898,” he says slowly. “I lost it during World War I.” 

“Suppose I should get you a new one then,” Aziraphale says lightly. “After all, I won’t always be able to use my wings to keep you dry.”

Crowley continues to look a little chilled all through their lunch, so Aziraphale miracles them a couple of hot toddies once they finish their food. Crowley drinks his in one go and then promptly falls asleep on the sofa in the backroom. 

Aziraphale curls back up in his armchair and returns to his novel. 

The book continues to be not terrible. Aziraphale still spends most of his afternoon watching Crowley sleep. 

 

On Sunday, Aziraphale goes to church. He doesn’t fully understand why. The last time he set foot in a church was in 1941, right before said church was pulverised by an airstrike, and that was to sell books to Nazi spies. It’s not as if he generally needs gothic architecture to help him get in touch with the heavenly forces, and there is something bizarre about being surrounded by the shrines humans have erected in honour of people Aziraphale has actually met during his life. Half of them he remembers to be conceited pricks, and that sort of puts a bit of a damper on things. 

But perhaps, he muses, there is something to be said for looking up at God from the perspective of mere mortals who still get to have faith in the façade because they don’t understand what goes on behind the scenes. 

Crowley is waiting for him outside Southwark Cathedral after the service, leaning against the fence that separates the churchyard from the street. He is smoking a Dunhill and carelessly flicking the lighter on and off with his left hand. Aziraphale would tell him to be more careful about playing with fire if he didn’t know who he was. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Crowley asks, his gaze tracking the tiny flame before extinguishing it once again. 

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale says, dedicating his attention to the pigeons picking at the bits of crumpet a couple of children are feeding them. 

“Huh,” Crowley says, and stubs the cigarette out against the fence. “Pub?”

“Why not,” Aziraphale nods gratefully, and they don’t talk about work anymore for the rest of the day. 

 

On Monday, he drags Crowley to the V&A. Crowley puts up a token protest about prudish Victorian art all the way into the entrance hall, although Aziraphale isn’t sure whom he is trying to convince. They both know quite well that Crowley is just as obsessed with their fashion and shoe collection as he is himself. 

For the other visitors, the historical costumes provide a tiny glimpse into foreign cultures and times long past. For Aziraphale and Crowley, it’s a way to reminisce. 

“Urgh, corsets,” Crowley mutters, staring at the offending item as if he’s trying to set it on fire with his gaze. 

(Perhaps he is. Aziraphale makes a note to ask if he can indeed set things on fire with his eyes. Somehow over all the centuries this question never appears to have come up. It seems like a terrible oversight.).

“I am telling you, the day corsets finally went out of fashion was a victory for humanity.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Aziraphale sniffs. “Not everyone is blessed with your …” He gestures vaguely. “… naturally slender figure. Those Regency suits were awfully tight. Some people needed a little more … support, you know.” 

“Don’t tell me you were not utterly miserable though,” Crowley argues. “I remember you looking like you had difficulty breathing for at least a good 25 years. I am telling you, they were nothing but glorified torture devices.” 

“They should have been right up your street then, shouldn’t they?” Aziraphale asks pointedly, though it’s mostly for show, and from the way his mouth quirks at the corners, Aziraphale can tell that Crowley understands this as well. 

“I have higher standards than that when it comes to torture,” he says haughtily, and then shoots a diabolical grin at two young children staring at him with wide eyes. Their father huffs angrily and pulls them away. 

Later, at the gift shop, in a bout of desperate insanity that he cannot bring himself to regret, Aziraphale buys a bracelet made from woven oxidised brass-plated silver that smoothly slides over his fingers like a mysterious dark serpent when he runs it back and forth between his hands. 

Crowley gives him a strange look when Aziraphale hands him the paper bag to carry as they stroll towards the exit, but he doesn’t ask questions, to Aziraphale’s relief. 

Two hours later, when Crowley hands his credit card to the waiter after their leisurely supper, Aziraphale realises that the bracelet is now wrapped around Crowley’s slender wrist like the coils of a snake around a tree. The bracelet goes beautifully with Crowley’s dark leather jacket, just like Aziraphale knew it would. 

 

On Tuesday, Aziraphale doesn’t hear from Crowley all day. He thinks that is probably for the best. They have seen a lot of each other over the past year, but never quite as much as this week. The benefit, or perhaps in this particular case, the problem with thinking you have eternity on your side is that nothing ever feels quite as urgent as it otherwise might. In the past, they had gone years, sometimes decades, without running into each other, always certain in the knowledge that eventually they would find each other again. So it seemed a rather minor detail, in the grand scheme of things, that every week or so, they would go without seeing each other for a day, perhaps even three, and that, too, had become part of their routine. It’s normal, it’s what they do, and Aziraphale does not want Crowley to become alerted to the fact that something is off simply because Aziraphale is unable to occupy himself for 24 hours straight. 

Walking back home after having breakfast at the quaint coffeeshop down the street, the thought occurs to Aziraphale that perhaps he should be trying to write a will. 

It seems like an equally morbid and silly endeavour, so utterly and terribly human. It is not as if he is actually going to die (just like he isn’t, in the strict sense of the word, actually _alive_ ), and he isn’t entirely sure what Crowley would do with a bookshop anyway. Still. He supposes he can relate to the desire to get one’s affairs in order, so to speak, and it’s not like he has got anything better planned for the day. 

Aziraphale is aware that Crowley rarely reads for pleasure, but he can think of some books that might end up being of use to him over time, and so an hour or two are spent digging through shelves and piles for the titles he has in mind. 

And Crowley does like the sofa in the backroom, so Aziraphale dedicates some time to miracling away a number of tiny stains and wrinkles, although it’s true that this particular piece of furniture probably would not go very well with the overall décor of Crowley’s flat. 

The adventure novels should probably go to Adam, Aziraphale thinks, considering that he was the one to conjure them in the first place. And some of his more extravagant tea sets might make good housewarming presents, he supposes – after all, Miss Tracy and Anathema both appear to be in the process of settling down with their respective witch hunter husbands, and perhaps at some point they will be wanting to entertain guests.

He drops the fountain pen at that point, ignoring the blotch of ink spreading over the page, and proceeds to walks from room to room, taking a mental inventory of his worldly possessions until the sun has set and it becomes too dark to see. 

He never ends up turning on the lights. 

It must be past ten when a car honks nearby, seemingly right outside his shop. He startles in his armchair briefly at the noise, then lets his eyes fall shut once more. 

The car honks again. And again. And again. 

The Bentley is idling at the side of the road when he finally opens the front door, headlights casting two bright paths on the dark pavement. 

“Get in,” Crowley says, leaning across the passenger seat to push the car door open from the inside. “It’s a half hour drive.”

“A half hour drive to where?” Aziraphale asks, after he has fastened his seatbelt and the car has pulled away from the kerb with a bit more thrust than strictly necessary. 

Crowley throws him a quick smile. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and his yellow eyes are gleaming in the dark. 

“You’ll see.”

He takes them south on the A24, the radio playing at low volume. Aziraphale leans his head against the window and stares into the darkness without really taking anything in. 

They make it almost to the entrance of the park before he realises where they are headed. 

He straightens in his seat. 

“Morden Hall Park?” he asks curiously. “Not that it’s not a lovely place to go for a stroll, but shouldn’t we have gone earlier in the day?”

“Patience is a virtue, Angel,” Crowley says, still smiling, and Aziraphale simply doesn’t have the energy to pretend to be put out. 

They park the car in a place that Aziraphale is fairly certain is not actually meant for parking, and hike a short distance into the park. On a gentle slope, out of sight from the nearest path, Crowley unfolds a large grey woollen blanket. 

“This is it,” he says. “Take a seat.”

Aziraphale still doesn’t know what they are doing here, but obeying is easier than answering questions, and so he folds himself into a seat on the rug, which turns out to be quite comfortable. 

Crowley sits down beside him, close but not quite close enough to touch. 

“You may want to lie back, actually,” he says, after a moment of silence. “Think we have about two minutes left.”

Aziraphale fleetingly considers protesting, but the thought doesn’t last very long. It takes him a minute or so to arrange his body in the requested position, and by the time he is flat on his back, the first shooting stars are crossing the sky. 

“It’s a meteor shower,” Aziraphale exhales, staring in awe as flecks of gold begin to explode all over the dark velvet sky. “What … where is everyone? Why are there no other stargazers around?”

Crowley is quiet for a while. 

“Because I didn’t tell anyone it was going to happen,” he finally says, his voice carefully casual. 

“You …” It takes a moment for the words to sink in. When they do, Aziraphale whips his head around to stare at the demon. 

“You made this.”

“Well,” Crowley says, without looking at him. “I set things up so it would happen.” He chuckles dryly, not entirely without bitterness. “A good 6’000 years and a slice of eternity before the beginning of time ago.” 

Aziraphale feels his heart constrict in his chest. “You were an angel then,” he says. It is not a question. 

“Yeah,” Crowley replies simply, and folds his arms behind his head. 

Aziraphale swallows around the lump of emotions in his throat, and turns his gaze back up towards the sky.

“Dear friend,” he finally says. “They are _beautiful_.”

 

On Wednesday night, they go back to the Ritz. It seems fitting, in a quite beautiful and awfully tragic way, and certainly like something Aziraphale could have come up with himself. But as they walk into the restaurant, he cannot seem to remember precisely which one of them suggested it, much less who called to make the reservation. 

Their usual table is waiting, though, a chilled bottle of champagne set out for them already, and Aziraphale decides that it doesn’t really matter. The music is pleasant, the food is excellent, the company better, and Aziraphale steadfastly refuses to think of the coming day, lest he let the pleasure of the experience be tainted by his grief over what’s yet to come. 

His resolve lasts until Crowley pulls up to the kerb outside the bookshop, and Aziraphale feels something inside him breaking. 

This is it, he thinks. This is the last time. 

“Here we are,” Crowley says quietly, staring out through the windscreen into the night. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, and does not make any motion to get out of the car. 

“Well,” Crowley says. He clears his throat. Aziraphale turns his head to look at him and realises he has taken off his shades. 

“I had a good time.” 

Of course Crowley is just talking about tonight’s dinner, Aziraphale knows. There is no possible way that he means it the way he makes it sound. There is most certainly no way he means it in the way Aziraphale can’t help but hear it, as he looks back at 6’000 years of companionship coming to an end. 

“Yes,” he says, trying to stop his voice from wobbling. “Yes, me too.”

He wants to say something, do something more, but a hug would be extremely unusual and likely not well received, and he cannot come up with anything else to say. 

In the end he does nothing – just climbs out of the car, a little more clumsily than usual, gives Crowley a last little half-smile, and then watches the Bentley take off down the road. 

He stands in the street for a long time after the car is already out of sight. 

 

Gabriel and Michael return on Thursday. They bring his sword as a welcome-back present. Aziraphale would feel touched if the hypocrisy of it all wasn’t quite so revolting. 

“Are you ready?” Gabriel asks. He is clearly not happy to be here either, and he is not hiding it very well. 

“Let’s go,” Michael says, holding out the sword. Aziraphale weighs it in his hand. It feels nice, familiar, the same way it did when God first bestowed it on him.

It feels like it was made for someone else. 

He hands the weapon back to Michael. 

“I am not coming,” he says. He didn’t know it was what he was going to say, and yet, as the words leave his mouth, he doesn’t feel the least bit of surprise. 

The same cannot be said for Gabriel. Aziraphale thinks that whatever happens, his decision might have been worth it simply to see the slick corporate façade crack open like a raw egg. 

“Excuse me?” Gabriel asks, gobsmacked. “Are you saying you want more time?”

“No,” Aziraphale says calmly. He smiles. “I am saying that I am not coming back. I quit.”

“Quit?” Michael exclaims, genuinely appalled. “You can’t just quit.”

“Of course I can,” Aziraphale says lightly. “I have read the contract, you know.”

Gabriel stares. “You … do know what that means, right? You have read the fine print.”

“I know what it means,” he says reassuringly, because Gabriel looks like he might need a little reassurance right now. 

“But …” Gabriel is struggling to come up with words. “But why?”

Aziraphale shrugs. He is ready for this conversation to end. 

“I am not sure there is a way to explain that you would truly understand, if you have to ask me why.”

Eventually the angels leave, visibly too stunned to argue any further. They take the sword with them. Aziraphale is glad to see them go. He might need a moment to collect his thoughts.

He goes for a walk to clear his head, not really paying attention to where he goes. Yes, Aziraphale has indeed read the fine print. He is aware of what happens to those who reject their angelic roots for good. They do not fall, no, nothing quite as dramatic as that. But they lose their heavenly powers. 

Oh, it’s not going to happen right away. In fact, it will take centuries, even millennia, for his magic to slowly fade. In 500 years or so, miracles won’t come as easily anymore, another 500 years and his senses might get just a tad duller than they used to be. His wings will be one of the last things to go, and then, eventually, his immortality. 

Of course, it may never come to that. The world might end, properly this time, before he even loses his ability to add gears to a bicycle with a flick of his hand. And if – when – it does, he won’t have a home to return to, because the gates of Heaven will be closed to him. Which means that when the planet perishes, so will he. 

At some point, he looks up and realises that he has happened to end up outside of Crowley’s flat. He is not even terribly surprised. Where else was he going to go? 

He isn’t quite sure how to explain his presence, though. He has rarely ever spent much time at Crowley’s place, is used to Crowley seeking him out. And anything he might have wanted to tell him, he could have conveyed easily by phone. 

Not that he does have anything to tell him. Crowley has no idea what happened since he left Aziraphale outside his shop the previous night. Does not know that Aziraphale has chosen to forsake Heaven and Eternity for the company of someone who might very well disappear on him any day. Can’t ever know, if Aziraphale has any say in it. 

He doesn’t bother to knock (Crowley certainly never does when he intrudes on Aziraphale at the shop), but he does stop inside the door to call the demon’s name. There is no response, but Crowley must be home – the electric lights are on in the hallway, and somewhere in the flat _The End_ by the Doors is playing, which strikes Aziraphale as a rather maudlin choice on a random Thursday afternoon, even for a demon. 

He follows the music and finally finds Crowley in the living space, slumped against the armrest of the black leather sofa, an open bottle of what looks like Glenfiddich in his hand. There is another green bottle just like it on the coffee table, and it appears to be empty. 

Suddenly Aziraphale isn’t sure anymore that it was a good idea to intrude. 

“What happened?” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the sound of the music, but somehow Crowley hears him anyway. 

He shoots up from the sofa with a start, the bottle slipping from his lax fingers and onto the rug. 

The song cuts off abruptly. 

“You …” Crowley stares open-mouthed, snake eyes wide and unblinking. “Why are you here?”

“Well,” Aziraphale stammers, confused and caught off-guard. “I forgot to ask you earlier if …”

“No,” Crowley interrupts sharply, waving away the rest of his half-cooked weak excuse. “I mean: Why are you _here_?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it again, the heart in his chest hammering wildly. Surely there is no way Crowley understands what he is asking …

Except when he takes in his friend’s expression, half-crazed and incredulous, Aziraphale realises that yes, he quite obviously does. 

“You … you knew?” he asks faintly. 

“What, that the company was trying to get you to come back to Head Office?” Crowley asks dryly. 

Aziraphale winces.

“Of course I knew,” Crowley scoffs. “Gabriel may be the least subtle supernatural creature I have ever met. And that includes the Kraken and Satan himself.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, as the events and conversations of the previous week start to rearrange themselves in his mind to take on different meaning. His hands are shaking slightly. 

“Oh _no_.”

“So I also know that you should be on an escalator heading upstairs,” Crowley says, his voice brittle. “Should have been about seven days ago, for that matter.” 

Aziraphale bites his lip and stares at the wall over Crowley’s left shoulder. “I asked for an extension.” 

“Yes, so I gathered,” Crowley nods. “But if they are desperate enough to redeem you, surely they didn’t give you more than a few days. So you must have …” 

He pauses, coughs. 

“You didn’t go.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, very quietly. 

“I quit.”

Crowley stares at him in shock. 

“You quit.”

Aziraphale nods. He has always wondered if mortals can actually die from humiliation. Perhaps now he will have a chance to find out.

“But _why_?” Crowley asks, sounding genuinely upset. 

And that is the question, isn’t it. Part of Aziraphale wants to snap _You know why_ , but it’s becoming quite clear that Crowley _doesn’t_ know, and Aziraphale would much rather keep it that way. 

He doesn’t even realise that he has closed his eyes until there is a hand on his chin, tilting it upwards, and his eyes blink open in shock at the touch. 

Crowley’s hand is dry and warm and a little bit rough, and the demon is looking at him from unblinking, sad, completely sober eyes. 

“I never meant to tempt you,” Crowley says, something like shame and fear warring in his voice. 

Aziraphale chokes out a laugh, a bit hysterically perhaps. 

“I mean it,” Crowley says urgently. “Small things, of course. I always told you in advance when I did. But not this. Never this. I was not going to say anything. I wasn’t going to risk … “ He swallows. 

“The feeling of falling – I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, and I definitely wouldn’t wish it on you.”

“You didn’t tempt me,” Aziraphale says, and now it is Crowley’s turn to laugh in disbelief. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “You didn’t need to. I did that all by myself. I knew what you were from the very beginning, and I still kept seeking you out.”

“And I didn’t fall.” He pauses. “Well, except fall in love. As you have surmised correctly. Not because you tempted me. But because you could have and yet never did.”

Crowley looks _devastated_ at his words, and Aziraphale can’t help it – he reaches out to touch his face, a fleeting, barely-there caress, before he drops his hand again. 

“I quit because I wanted to. I made my choice. And all things considered, I would make it again. I suppose it was that thing, you know, that humans are so fascinated with: free will.”

“Were you going to tell me?” Crowley asks. 

“Probably not,” Aziraphale admits. 

“Why _the hell_ would you not?”

Aziraphale smiles so he doesn’t need to cry. 

“Didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Scare …” Crowley pauses, stares at Aziraphale in utter disbelief. Takes a deep breath. 

“Angel,” he says slowly. “If you knew about the things I’ve imagined doing to you over the centuries ….”

Aziraphale shivers. “Won’t you tell me?” he breathes, and Crowley shakes his head, amused and strangely bashful at once. 

“Half of them I could never let you find out, for fear of having you make a run for the hills.”

“Try me,” Aziraphale says defiantly, bravely, and Crowley’s eyes blink once as he accepts the challenge, right before he swoops in and claims Aziraphale’s mouth in searing kiss. 

 

It is not as if Aziraphale has never experienced the pleasures of the flesh before. Regardless of what the major monotheistic religions seem to believe, physical proximity can be a perfectly legitimate, _blessed_ form of comfort, of mercy. 

He is not at all surprised to find out that nothing he has done before compares even remotely to _this_. 

Crowley fucks him right there on the living room floor, angry and careful at once, his chest sealed to Aziraphale’s back as he pushes into him from behind, one arm wrapped around the angel’s side, hand splayed just over his heart. 

Aziraphale returns the favour a little later. Crowley’s long legs are thrown over Aziraphale’s shoulders, intertwining behind his neck, and Aziraphale’s hands are worshipping Crowley’s hipbones as he lines up their bodies just right. “Open your eyes,” he commands, hoarsely, and then watches, enthralled, as the serpent’s pupils pulse in the rhythm of his thrusts. 

“I love you,” he can’t help but say, and Crowley shudders underneath him and comes undone, staring unblinkingly at Aziraphale the whole time. 

They do make it to the bed eventually. Neither of them really needs to sleep, but it’s nice to lie side by side, staring up at the ceiling together. Crowley’s arm is pillowing Aziraphale’s head, and Aziraphale’s hand is resting on Crowley’s stomach, idling tracing fragments of ancient blessings into his skin.

“So,” Aziraphale says finally. “Did that cover about half of the things you had in mind for us?”

“Oh Angel,” Crowley chuckles fondly. “That didn’t even scratch the surface.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale says happily. He is almost certain that the notion should not make him feel quite as pleased as it does but he finds that he does not particularly care. 

Crowley clears his throat then, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks that Aziraphale watches in wonder. 

“I admit that I didn’t expect you to be quite so … versatile. Somehow I don’t remember them teaching that sort of thing upstairs.”

Aziraphale sniffs indignantly. “I _have_ read the Kama Sutra, if you must know.”

“Oh really,” Crowley says, intrigued. “Didn’t think that one would have made it on the recommended book list.”

“It _is_ a spiritual text,” Aziraphale replies. “It’s not my fault that the competition eastwards seems to be better at reconciling religious and physical fulfilment.”

“Aren’t they, though,” Crowley nods lazily, his eyes fluttering shut, and it’s the absence of his gaze that gives Aziraphale the courage to say what he says next. 

“So I estimate that we have roughly 3’000 years, give or take.”

Crowley goes very still. “3’000 years until what?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Until I am entirely mortal and …” He waves his hand. “You know. Start withering away. And you will want to move on.”

The thought of Crowley moving on does not feel very good, not now nor 3’000 years in the future, but he thinks that perhaps this is what he’s supposed to say. To be clear that he won’t blame him for finding someone else after … not to create false expectations …

“Shhhh,” Crowley says, and runs two gentle fingers across Aziraphale’s forehead. The trace of his fingers is not quite a cross, the hushing noise not quite a hiss. 

“Stop that now. We have 3’000 years to figure it out. There are things we can do. Who knows, maybe we’ll go work for the Indian branch? I do know a _dasa_ who runs a floating casino in Goa. We could go visit sometime, check out the scene.”

Aziraphale ponders that for a moment. “Their leadership does seem to have more appreciation for moral complexity,” he says finally. “And they have great food.”

“See,” Crowley says. “We have options. Right now, for Go- ” He breaks off and visibly bites his tongue, starts over. 

“For _my_ sake, and your own. Stop thinking.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale agrees easily. 

He turns his head on the pillow to look at his demon. Over Crowley’s shoulder, the digital display of an alarm clock is blinking, informing him that it is Friday now, shortly past two in the morning. 

This is the first day of the rest of his life, in this small world they have created together, over the past 6’001 years and seven days.

“And behold,” he murmurs, “it was very good.”

“Huh?” Crowley makes, his eyebrows drawn together. 

“Nothing,” Aziraphale says reassuringly. “Nothing at all.”

With a smile, he leans in.

Crowley rises up on his elbows to meet him halfway.


End file.
